


Lapful

by Mooninmie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, The Drugs Bust ™, soldier John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27962624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mooninmie/pseuds/Mooninmie
Summary: Lestrade has found many strange things in 221B Baker Street, but a shirtless military man is often not one of them.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 184





	Lapful

Lestrade pushed his way into 221B Baker street, fuming with the audacity of Sherlock Holmes. He somehow managed to be the least helpful and most helpful person he had ever met, and as Mrs. Hudson fretted - saying something about how they (they?) were busy with something or other, his team followed behind him. The warrant was tucked safely into his front pocket.

He pounded on the door and didn’t bother to wait for an answer, shoving open the unlocked door to Sherlock’s flat. He opened his mouth to both berate Sherlock and order his team around to look for the evidence that had been taken by the sticky-fingered detective, but stopped dead in his tracks when he heard a surprised shout.

His team seemed to have stopped as well, and they all stared as a shirtless man, his body well-toned and left shoulder covered in extensive bandages. Fading blooms of bruises and healing cuts, some carefully covered with bandages of their own, scattered his bare skin. His pants hung limply off his defined hip bones.

He darted his eyes over the group suspiciously for less than a second before seemingly coming to a conclusion and his tense muscles slacked minutely, swimming blue eyes regaining a weathered warmth, though his face didn’t exactly smooth. A worried, confused furrow remained between his eyebrows and he turned his attention to the sulky Sherlock below him, his handful of the latter’s shirt sleeve twisting under his palm as he tightened his grip.

Oh, yes, Lestrade supposed his mind was only now catching up.

The same Sherlock that he had come to scold was sitting in one of the mismatched chairs of his flat with a lapful of a very beaten, very fit, and very handsome man. Shirtless, too. 

Lestrade suddenly started and ripped his gaze away, realizing that he was interrupting something very private. 

Sherlock gave a long suffering sigh and glared at them all over the shoulder of the blond-haired man, his nose pressed into bare skin. Donovan had somehow pushed her way to the front of the crowd and seemed equally invested in gazing appreciatively at the newcomer and pondering how exactly he had ended up in the lap of a madman.

The air was tense and the nameless man, frazzled, flickered his attention between the detective who was clutching his hips protectively and the entire team of frozen police officers.

“Erm,” he began eloquently, “Hullo. I’ll give you all the benefit of the doubt that you’re not exactly the aggressors,” Sherlock huffed moodily and the still nameless man grinned good-naturedly, before continuing in a tone that implied humor, though Lestrade wasn’t entirely sure, “but who the hell are you? And how come you didn’t just knock?”

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something, but Anderson interrupted with his needlessly big mouth. “We’re the police,” he all but bit out. “Now who are you, and what’re you doing in his flat?”

The nameless man’s grin twisted into a pained expression, his lips pinched tightly. He slowly slipped his legs out of their straddling position and Sherlock grunted in protest, but let his hands loosen and all but retracted aside from letting a palm hover at the blonde man’s lower back. Now standing on solid ground, even Lestrade, though lacking in observational skills according to Sherlock, could see the ramrod straight posture of a soldier. 

The man raised his eyebrows with mirth and Sherlock, apparently seeing something to assuage the protective streak he has (surprisingly) displayed in just the last few minutes, let his palm lower with a small smirk on his face. He hid it in a false mope behind dark curls that were growing just a bit too long and observed the scene as it unfolded in front of him like a hawk from a perch.

“Well, I live here,” he stated matter of factly. “It only makes sense that I’d be around.” He slipped his hands into the pockets of his baggy pants and turned his strangely fond attention around the chaotic mess of a flat.

Anderson blinked. “Another flatmate?”

Lestrade could all but facepalm and Donovan, turning to look at her lover before flicking her gaze away and tucking her face beneath her hand, seemed to agree.

To his credit, though, the man just grinned, seemingly unable to contain it, and clumsily stifled a very clear laugh behind his fist. Sherlock had no qualms and laughed outwardly to which the man threw him an admonishing look, though it distinctly lacked any heat, even to the untrained eye. Badly concealed snickers and giggles rose behind him from the team. 

Lestrade chanced a glance at Anderson and found that his face was burning up, and he briefly thought of steam rising from his cheeks. The man noticed as well, it seemed, and took pity on him.

He replied, “Yeah, mate. Something like that.”

Sherlock snorted and threw his head back in a remarkable show of boyish joy that made Lestrade pause and stare. Just out of principle. It’s what you do when you see something so unusual in everyday life. He felt the need to appreciate Sherlock being genuinely happy, and turned his attention back to the blue-eyed, still nameless man with a new found respect.  
His team absorbed the ridiculously tranquil bliss Sherlock was radiating and as the less tight-lipped members grinned or giggled, Lestrade couldn’t help but break out into a smile, too. Anderson, sour-faced, retreated towards the back of the team to contemplate his damaged ego.

The man turned his attention away from Sherlock and assessed Lestrade with a friendly once over. “So. You’re Lestrade, I’m guessing?” 

Lestrade, slightly surprised, ducked his head. “Yeah, has he mentioned me?”

“Sure,” his grin stood unwavering, and Lestrade was put at ease by the uncomplicated openness of the stranger’s expression. “Never caught a first name, though.”

Lestrade suppressed a sigh and offered his right hand. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Call me Greg.” 

The man took his hand out of his pocket and looked at it pointedly, and it was only now that Lestrade noticed the bandages wrapped tightly around most of it, palm to fingers. He winced and lowered his hand without comment, to which the man seemed infinitely grateful for. 

“Captain John Watson,” the now named (finally, Lestrade thought) man grinned anew and offered a quick and relaxed salute, endearingly awkward with the bundle of white that was closer to a paw than anything. “Call me John. Pleasure, Greg.”

It was just then that Sherlock decided to bound up from his spot hunched in the chair, long legs striding quickly across the wooden boards. “Yes, yes, are we all quite done with introductions now?” he said testily, though the lack of usual bite in his tone was staggering. John hardly even reacted with more than a loving glance when Sherlock ducked his head into John’s uninjured shoulder and snaked his arms around his waist. It was only then that Lestrade took notice of the fact that Sherlock’s usually extensively theatrical and covering outfits had been replaced by a loose grey t-shirt and worn jeans.

If Lestrade looked a little more closely, he could see the long faded track marks along Sherlock’s forearms. He didn’t look any more closely than a cursory glance.

Sherlock peeked up from his hiding spot in John’s shoulder to glare at them lazily. “We were busy,” he deadpanned. “What is this about?”

Lestrade blinked at him and considered stating that it was a drug bust, and looked at John, his soldier stance and his kind eyes staring at him just as thoughtfully before turning and pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s messy hair. Lestrade shifted awkwardly on his feet and began to speak just as Sherlock was opening his mouth, most likely to growl at him to quit thinking so slowly.

“Evidence, Sherlock.” Lestrade crossed his arms and puffed his chest. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the inspector, but looked distinctly less intimidating than he ever had. 

He buried his head back into the bridge between John’s shoulder and neck (he had just been watching passively, leaning slightly back into Sherlock) and breathed deeply. “Mmfh,” he grumbled, and suddenly, coming to a conclusion startlingly quickly, turned his head back up to Lestrade with pupils blown wide. 

A strange part of his mind wondered absently whether John puts goddamn cocaine in his aftershave.

“Fine,” he spat, but once again lacked any real bite at all. At most it was an uninterested nip out of habit at the tip of the fingers instead of the whole hand snap he gave out on such a regular basis. Lestrade watched open-mouthed as Sherlock padded across the flat in his bare feet and retrieved a bag of evidence that was tucked into the bookshelf. He looked at John in awe, who just licked his lips and continued grinning, entirely too amused by the situation. 

Sherlock crossly tossed the bag in Lestrade’s direction, and Donovan, though just as obviously in shock at how easy it was, turned and began waving the small group out of the flat. Sherlock paced the ground and spoke about the case with the constant air of rightness that always followed him, rattling off what he had deduced about the evidence and a very descriptive profile of the killer. 

Donovan was scribbling down notes, much to her own distaste, because Lestrade was busy gazing uncomprehendingly at the bag in his hands. The rest of the team had already retreated out of 221B and were making their way out of Baker Street. 

Lestrade, only half listening, looked at John, and his many bandages and bruises, and his constant good-natured amusement, and then back to Sherlock, who had abruptly stopped talking. John huffed out a laugh and shook his head. “Brilliant,” he said, and Sherlock preened. A dusty pink rose to his cheeks, and it took all of Lestrade’s fraying self control not to gape as Sherlock Holmes - the Sherlock Holmes - blushed.

Sherlock decided something after casting one more sweeping look over the equally shocked officers, and retreated into the door that could only be his bedroom. He emerged not even half a minute later carrying a big cardboard box, which he unceremoniously shoved at Lestrade.

“There.” He seemed very pleased with himself. “Now go away, Lestrade. Donovan. Don’t bother us.” 

John, eyes brimming with absolute delight, watched as the two were shoved out of the door, earning a confused squawk from Lestrade and a noise of protest from Donovan. 

“For a week, at least,” Sherlock added dangerously. A pause. Then, “No, make it two.” He promptly slammed the door in their faces. 

Donovan glared at the door as they heard the lock slide and click into place, shoving her notepad into her coat pocket grimly. Lestrade looked down into the cardboard box, and Donovan turned her attention toward it as well. She rifled through it and pulled out a file, flicking through it incredulously. 

“Oh, my god,” she remarked, mouth open. “Some of these are years old!” She pulled another one out and once again her feathers seemed to be ruffled. “This was my case!” she exclaimed, and pounded on the door, which was ignored. “My case! Freak! This was my file!”

She huffed and angrily tossed the file into the cardboard box filled with undoubtedly classified police information and evidence that Sherlock had managed to gather under the NSY’s nose over the years. She stomped her way down the stairs and, with one more disbelieving look at the door to Sherlock’s - and John’s, he supposes - flat, Lestrade followed after her.

**Author's Note:**

> This trope has been done so many times, but I like it and so I’m going to write it because I’ve read all of the ones I could find. Just a bit of fun :))


End file.
